


Just Us

by lunaverserocks



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Badass Katara (Avatar), Evil Plans, F/M, Iroh (Avatar) loves Tea, Murder, Revenge, Zhao (Avatar) Is An Asshole, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-03-07 02:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18863965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaverserocks/pseuds/lunaverserocks
Summary: “This was never about vengeance! It’s about justice!” Village decimated and taken captive, Katara makes a decision: Iroh slaughtered the people she loved most. So it's only right that she returns the favor. [A realistic take on an overused plot. Rated for mature themes. Eventual Zutara.]





	1. The Calm Before the Storm

 

_  
Anger is like a storm rising up from the bottom of your consciousness. When you feel it coming, turn your focus to your breath._

**Thich Nhat Hanh**

* * *

**XoXoX**

* * *

It was quiet—finally. The screams had stopped, the winds had settled, and the air was finally warming up. Though, none of those things happened because nature allowed it; everything was halted or heated by force—against the divine will of the spirits—to reveal a sorry-looking and somber sight. Screams, once deafening, were quieted because most of the villagers were finally perishing, their cries coming out as wet gurgles, blood frothing against blue-bitten lips. Winds, once gusty and intrusive, were blocked by a wall of iron-clad warships, rows upon rows embanked against the outer rim or idling slightly off shore. The air was warm—almost stifling compared to the natural chill; though, it was polluted with haze, tendrils of smoke billowing from the lean-to homes set ablaze, animal hides engulfed, feasting on the dead skins. The flames surged, climbing higher than the prow of the warships, smoke reaching challenging heights as a trio of uniformed men passed.

The largest of the three—large not in stature but in girth—stared at the massacre, his eyes sober and face generally impassive. He eyed the red splotches coating the snowy ground, the stains of so many lives strewn about in a cryptic painting, telling a few men's final stories, glorifying a hard-fought battle wherein the losers fought bravely and bitterly before succumbing to their foe's unforgiving strength.

War was war, but he couldn't help feeling a twinge of sadness.

Did so many people have to die?

Did the women and children who fought inside their humble homes have to take up arms—swords, spears, even a spoon or two—and perish?

Perhaps, but the outrageous loss of life felt unnecessary; though, he knew that anything less would've been considered weakness. And right now, weak was not something he could afford to be.

One step, and then another; that was all he needed to do: keep walking. So he did, occasionally glancing at the splattered remains on the ground and the bodies within the burning homes, where fire licked the corpses and consumed clothes, flesh, and hair with a greed he couldn't—and didn't want to—describe. Some feet—small and large, men and women and a few children—dangled outside the flapping cloth openings. It was a grim scene, but he had seen such things before, more times than he cared to admit, actually.

A sigh, something low and far too difficult for the armored men beside him to hear. The lieutenant on his right glanced at him briefly; maybe he heard, but maybe the noise was a trick from the wind. Either way, the thin-lipped officer wouldn't say anything; he knew better.

Three pairs of boots pressed onward, into the center of the small village, where the largest ramshackle hut was located, where most of the soldiers were positioned in two straight-backed lines, holding their spears aloft, satisfied smiles on their faces. It was the look of victory, but the middle-most officer could only think of the carnage around him.

The soldier closest to the destined hut reached out and pulled the canvas door aside, ushering his superiors inside, into the home of the defeated chief. Into the home of the man who refused to kneel when given the opportunity—again…and then again. Though unconfirmed, the trio expect the aforementioned man to be deceased, like the rest of his people, lying somewhere in the snow, skin and muscles freezing into whatever position he collapsed in. And when they enter through the flap, they weren't surprised to see crimson speckles coating the white furs or a body slumped with its head lolled forward, not moving or breathing. Dead.

But it wasn't the man they had expected. It was a boy, barely older than their nation's princeling.

There was a knife in his back, a gleaming, gilded piece, something no ordinary soldier would have—a weapon of an officer, of the man standing slightly off to the side, his hands clasped behind his back and a resolute smirk gracing his face.

The middlemost officer was the first to speak, addressing the sneering man opposite him. "Report?"

The officer—the captain who led the small incursion—bowed, one vertical hand over his fist. "General Iroh, we've taken the village. The Southern Water Tribe is yours to command."

Iroh stepped forward, closer to the dead boy with the golden knife in his back. He inspected the corpse curiously, eyeing the half-shaved head, the warrior's wolf-tail, the smeared face paint, and the silver-hued stitches sewn into his parka—the markings of an important family, the markings of  _the most_ important family in the tribe. The chief's son; his heir apparent and a boy barely older than ten.

And he was dead, a knife in his back. A dishonorable death.

There was an uncertain pause, and then Iroh whispered, "Casualties?"

"A handful," the captain replied, glancing at the thin-lipped lieutenant beside his superior. "Less than expected."

"And the villagers?"

The captain gestured to the boy, palm up. His callous smile hadn't faltered during the exchange. If anything, it grew, cracking across his face. "Annihilated."

Iroh blinked. Annihilation was a good word for what this was. Pure, intolerable extermination. Something deplorable and horrific. Sad. "We could have used this one," he remarked, forlornly shaking his head. For the first time, the captain's smile faded. "The chief's son. He could've been used as a political hostage or an example for the North. It's a shame he met such a gruesome fate."

"Indeed," the lieutenant piped up.

"He could've proved problematic over time." The captain stepped forward and pushed the dead boy's shoulder. The small body fell forward with a sickening  _thump_ and sprawled out. Blood pooled from the wound and dripped into the furs underfoot, thoroughly soaking the fuzzy floor. "It's better this way—cleaner. A complete extinction, like the nomads. Your grandfather would be proud."

There was a murmur from the final officer and a nod that spoke volumes—he agreed with the captain. "Use the boy's corpse as an example, sir. Defy the Fire Lord—refuse his supreme might—and face his wrath."

Iroh inhaled, subtly displeased and wishing to tear his attention away from the slain child. "And the chief? Where is his corpse? My father will want confirmation that the man was eliminated."

"I have a team scouring the village," the captain supplied. "He was last seen on the eastern edge of the village but he's not there anymore."

Iroh frowned and  _hmmm_ ed. "It's unusual, don't you think?" He tugged on his beard, slipping into a more thoughtful pose. "Why was he so far away from the rest of the fighting? Shouldn't he have been leading his people through the streets?"

"Perhaps he had more pressing conc—"

The flap opened and a pitiful wail poured through. A child was thrown inside, stumbling face-first until she crumbled onto the floor. Blue, two-toned mittens clutched the fur beneath her hands and her fingers clenched before she whirled and attacked the men who had thrown her inside. She sputtered, screaming an incoherent insult—something in her own language and slurred in the village's peculiar dialect—and charged.

One man swiftly pushed her aside and twisted her, pulling the braid trailing off the back of her head between his fingers. He tugged and she scrambled, standing on her tiptoes and reaching for the base of her hair as he pulled her higher, trying to alleviate the pain. She screamed again and scrunched her eyes closed with a mixture of rage and pain.

The soldier pulled her hair forward, urging her to continue walking. And she did, albeit grudgingly.

Another soldier entered, this one lugging a corpse: the deceased chief, who had a gash in his chest spanning from his left side to his right shoulder. Innards dripped from his wound and sloshed against the floor as he was thrown inside, next to his dead heir. The girl stared and whimpered. But it wasn't a girly sound, it was almost a gurgled cry, a grunt that expressed her displeasure over the chief's disrespectful treatment.

She stamped her foot and the soldier released her hair. She fell forward and crawled to the dead boy, fingers trembling as she reached further and further. And when she finally made it—knees sloshing in a puddle of blood and crimson fur—she cradled his head and teetered over him, muttering more guttural words.

Even though her eyes were glistening, she didn't cry. Just wobbled and murmured the same word over and over again. "Sokka…Sokka…Sokka."

The boy's name, perhaps?

The soldier, the one who had thrown the chief down, bowed. "We found them in the tundra, sir. Headed west."

Nobody could hide their surprise. Not even Iroh, who was unusually stoic and level-headed.

"Abandoning his people in their time of need," the captain spat. "Barbaric."

"Fleeing," Iroh said, looking at the grieving girl who wore a parka with silver-hued stitches—like the chief and his son, "with his remaining child."

The child in question continued swaying, clutching her brother. A pang of guilt swept through Iroh. War was war, but sometimes, seeing the outcome was heartbreaking. Especially through the eyes of a child. Especially when she was all that was left.

The sole survivor of the Southern Water Tribe: a little girl, no older than his niece.

Without a word, the captain lumbered forward and grabbed the girl's hair, fingers splayed between her pulled-back locks, nails digging into her scalp. He forced her head back—exposing her tanned neck—and drew a dagger. One clean slash across her throat and the tribe would be rendered survivor-less. He pursed his lips and slit.

"Stop." Iroh's command caught the captain off guard and he faltered, revealing a thin gash. Blood dribbled down her neck and into her fur-lined parka, an unsteady trail struggling against her haggard breathing. While everybody remained still and silent, awaiting a future order, she glared, light blue eyes darting around the room, looking at each of her potential assailants and evaluating them.

"Sir." The captain's voice wasn't questioning, it was a hint, a reminder that the child needed to be killed. Destroyed for the sake of peace—of victory in Fire Lord Azulon's name. But Iroh gave no response, just kept looking at the defiant little girl on the floor sitting between her slain brother and father.

With an aged grunt that definitely didn't go unnoticed by his fellow officers, Iroh stooped over the quaking girl, furling his arms within his sleeves. Nonthreatening. "Your name?"

He didn't expect her to answer. He doubted she even understood him, but he was willing to give her a chance to stifle her immediate execution.

She looked torn between spitting in his face, hurling a variety of colorful and unintelligible insults his way, or ramming him with her head. But instead of doing either of those things, she looked away from him and muttered something softly in her own language; something clipped and harsh—almost guttural—but strangely soft. And he nodded, expecting nothing less.

He was an invader, an outsider. And though he had hoped that her father would've taught her the common tongue, he understood that in a land so far away from everybody else, nobody would've bothered with such a thing unless she was being raised to lead. And—very obviously, now—she hadn't been.

Iroh let out a patient sigh and stood straight, still staring at the girl with his head tilted, intrigued.

Her eyes were startlingly blue, like an entire ocean miniaturized into two tiny globes, pools shifting as her irises bounced around the room. The whites of her eyes were blotched with webs of red but there was a twinkle that couldn't go unnoticed. The twinkle wasn't hatred—it wasn't even grief. It was something significantly stronger, something beyond a simple emotion like anger or a complicated monster like sorrow. And a piece of him wished to uncover what was beneath the surface of those eyes, pick them apart until he figured out what that something special was.

Captivated and enthralled, he kept looking.

She was wearing a thick, fur-lined parka, colored blue like everybody else's. Unlike her peers outside the chief's hut, she had silver-tinted thread emblazoned on her chest in the form of a wolf—of the tribal leader's chosen sigil. Between the wolf's jaws was a stitched symbol, something that her father and brother didn't have: waves within a circle. Briefly, he wondered what the symbol was, but was quickly distracted with the blood coating her stomach.

For a moment, he wondered if she was grievously injured. If she was, she was destined to die. But after studying the presumed wound, he noticed that she wasn't hunched over in pain, clutching her stomach. The red splotch was just a stain, just a pool of somebody else's blood—probably her father's. A final parting gift: a crimson blemish.

Altogether, the girl appeared healthy despite her newly-created neck wound. And most importantly, she was alive. But there was a problem with that, something that his captain had already mentioned: she shouldn't be. It would've been much easier that way.

Iroh sighed. What was he going to do with her?

A merciful piece of him called for a quiet death, something less gruesome than a slit throat. Perhaps a permanent sleeping draught of some sort—something that wouldn't cause her pain as she slipped away into a peaceful sleep. But she was whole and alive and well and barely older than eight, and he had already seen too much death and destruction for one day. So he took a deep, relaxing breath and wrung his hands together beneath his sleeves.

Besides a warmonger—the famed Dragon of the West—Iroh liked to think of himself as an accumulator, a collector and connoisseur of rare and unique goods. Anything from foreign teas and golden-flecked lemon cakes to bejeweled monkey statues with ruby eyes bigger than his fists. And as he looked at the quivering child, he had an ingenious thought: the last of something was  _the most_ rare an item could get. And before him was the only surviving member of the Southern Water Tribe, the last child from a decimated culture.

A soft smile graced his face, something friendly as he said something unexpected. "She'll remain with me."

His officers had immediate objections; he expected no less. Their honesty was why he cherished them. His lieutenant was first, "But sir, she's a savage, she'll murder you when you least expect it." The captain at his side, "She'll be the end of us if you bring her on board, sir. She'll escape when you least expect it—be a threat to not only yourself, but the crew." And finally, his commander, an unusually quiet man, "Do as you wish, but it's a horrid idea. Set her ablaze and be done with it."

For a second, Iroh wondered if he made the right choice. But something beyond his control was urging him to do this. Perhaps it was a sign from his late son, Lu Ten. Perhaps—from beyond the grave—his son's spirit was requiring some sort of cryptic penance for the entire tribe's loss. Whatever was tugging at his decision made him nod. Yes, he would keep the girl alive, bring her into his care—under his protective sleeve. She was the last of her people, the last of an entire culture. She needed protection—needed guidance. And he would keep her.

With a wave, he dismissed his fellow officers and instructed one of the soldiers outside to bring in his favorite tea set. Though she definitely wouldn't understand him, he would show her kindness, and she would have to get used to him.

* * *

**XoXoX**

_It doesn't matter what people say about me, I weather the storm._

**Terrell Owens**

**XoXoX**

* * *

She'd never seen anything like it before.

Her dad used to tell her stories when she was younger; well,  _technically_ , he used to tell Sokka stories (she would never beg for a bedtime story; no, she was much too mature for that). But she used to listen until she drifted off, anyway.

Her father told tales of adventures, of battles in the sea, of skirmishes on land, of swashbuckling pirates who usually used weird words like "ya-hargh" or "matey," of princes who fought for honor, and princesses who fell in love (which Sokka didn't like very much, calling such stories "oogies"). In all of those stories, the battles were never described in detail; they were glossed over and glorified—moments of bloodshed where the hero always came out victorious. The tales always focused on the aftermath: the spectators cheering and hoisting their champion over their heads, chanting their hero's name until it rang through the kingdoms and straight into infamy.

He never told the real story—the true art of war; the horrid violence filled with ear-piercing screams and clangs of metal, a melody of gurgles, and pleads for life that went ignored.

So when the villains approached the shore, she expected a glorious spectacle wherein her father—her own personal hero—would battle the invaders and mow them down, one by one, until he ruled supreme over those iron-clad warriors. She wanted to cheer his name alongside the other villagers, celebrate with elaborate feasts. She wanted to hear another story, this one his, before her eyelids fluttered shut at night. She expected all of that and more.

She never expected to see him begging. She never expected to see him slain.

Her hero, gone—her dad, murdered. And her brother—only two years older than her, a boy who barely fit into his armor—slaughtered while he tried to protect her.

She sniffled, just once. And the uniformed man who was definitely more than a simple soldier turned his head to glance at her. He shrugged when she did nothing more and started going through her father's personal possessions—riffling through his desk and poking through his wooden hope chest—searching for Tui knew what. His yellow eyes—a horrible color for irises—shifted toward her once more, catching her sight.

She twitched, hands clenching periodically as her thoughts overwhelmed her tiny consciousness. A deep inhale and a refreshing exhale, a puff of frost. She tried to settle herself down, but her murdered family was inches away and she couldn't close her eyes, knowing that tears would drip down her face if she did. She didn't want to cry—not in front of them. Not in front of the people who took away her world—who mercilessly slaughtered her brother and father. Who maliciously executed her entire tribe.

Another calculated inhale and her eyes closed, searching for the faintest bit of warmth from the fire in the far corner. Even though she never minded the cold before, her limbs felt faintly chilled and sluggish. And she usually solved that problem by curling up around her brother after she ignored his whiny protests. But Sokka wasn't alive anymore. She'd never hear his exasperated voice groan and then relent as he wrapped his arms around her. Gosh, she was already missing him.

The invader—the murderer—said something ("Are you cold?"), and her eyes snapped open, glowering, unable to understand his words. He said more things ("Why don't you sit down by the hearth and join me for a relaxing cup of jasmine tea?") but she remained still, planted—rooted to one spot. Like a stubborn earthbender unwilling to part with the small section of ground she had claimed for herself (in her  _own_ home, no less).

She spared a glance at her father's unmoving corpse, blood splattered limbs curling inward, freezing steadily even though there was a fur lining beneath his body, protecting him from the true harshness of the icy ground. And the murderer's yellow eyes followed her gaze.

Did his eyes soften? Or was that a trick of the now ever-growing, flickering light?

She looked away, ran her fingers through her dead brother's half torn out wolf-tail, willing him back to life. It didn't matter that the soldier's eyes held compassion or sorrow. He'd done what he'd done—even if he didn't wield the knife himself—and she wouldn't spare him the courtesy of listening to his soft words, no matter how soothing they sounded, no matter how gentle they seemed.

He killed her family—her  _people_ —and she steadily wondered when she would join her father and brother in the afterlife. Why couldn't he just kill her, too?

The invader stood up and she watched him poke his head through the hut's hide-covered exit. He said more things—this time with harsh-sounding words, words that sounded bitter and commanding—and four men walked in. They waved at her, telling her to shoo, but she remained still, clutching onto her brother's shoulder. Desperately clenching onto her elder sibling's slightly too-big armor, unwilling to ever let go.

They heaved and drug Sokka out and away, pinning her back as she fought against them, clawing at their mesh-covered face masks. And when her father and brother finally disappeared beyond the tent flap, she snarled and whirled, fists aiming for the portly man who had now taken  _everything_ from her.

He moved quickly, blocking her attack with effortless precision. She fell forward and scrambled back onto her feet, panting and cheeks blushing red from her effort. He merely walked away, ignoring her as he made his way toward the small hearth.

After she calmed down a little bit—breath fogging before her face in less lengthy pulls—he turned and looked at her. The ends of his lips curled into a delicate smile, something soft and comforting, but she only glared and started to scream at him ("Why would you do that? Who do you think you are? Bring them back!  _Now!_ ").

He didn't understand. Of course he didn't.

He just continued smiling and softly said, "Please, sit down," while he gestured toward her father's hand-carved dining room table. A table where she had just eaten a bountiful dinner, happy and laughing—when Sokka and her father had still been alive. Before the battle; before the slaughter.

The invader sat and brought a teacup to his lips. He sipped without slurping and let out a satisfied sound. And she  _hated_ him—loathed him.

"Sit," he said, pointing once more.

Her eyes flicked to the bloodstain on the floor, the final remains of her relatives—the final proof that they had once been alive. Then she turned away, blinking away her tears.

And then she sat. At the table. Across from her tribe's murderer, across from a man she would hate until her dying day.

He sipped again, and then pointed at his chest, trying his best to offer a basic introduction. "General Iroh."

She pursed her lips, committing his suspected name to memory.  _General Iroh._ A name she would despise and a man she would end.

But first, she'd need to come up with a plan.

The tea he pushed her way was hot—practically scalding—but she slurped it down violently and didn't even taste the jasmine that poured over her tongue. It burned her throat the whole way down. Deep, deep, deep down until it hit her rolling tummy. Bile flitted up her esophagus but she shoved it back and steadied her hateful gaze on his curious eyes.

Yellow eyes. An ugly, unnatural color.

Suddenly enraged, she vaulted over the table and aimed for those hideous orbs. She wanted them closed. Permanently. Dead and empty, like the eyes of every other person she had ever known.

But once again, he blocked her punches. He caught her wrists between his enormous and aggravatingly warm hands and twisted her arms around and back. "Settle," he said softly, even though she wouldn't—and refused—to understand.

She bit back a yelp and crushed her tongue with her teeth. "Calm down," he said, using that soothing tone she hated so much.

He released her arms when she stopped clenching her fists and she landed in an uncoordinated puddle on the ground, limbs too exhausted to move. She breathed deep and closed her eyes.

She wasn't strong enough to beat him physically. And she wasn't sure what he wanted, so whatever plan she could come up with needed to be carefully crafted, thoroughly and meticulously coordinated. She'd need to be patient, bide her time, willing to do whatever he wanted to lure him into a false sense of security. And then she would strike, obliterate him when he least expected it.

She looked at the bloodstain on the floor, blue eyes longing, and a dangerous realization clicked. She didn't want him dead. No, death would be merciful. She wanted him to  _hurt_. She wanted him to feel the same amount of absolute rage and loss she felt when those soldiers took her brother and dad out of the tent—drug them away from her frantic fingers. She wanted to destroy the thing—or person—he loved most. Kill it with a violent passion. Receive owed justice for the loss of her entire tribe _._ And if she needed to wait a few weeks to get what she wanted, needed to do whatever  _he_ wanted, she would.

The flap opened and a soldier entered—the one who had started to cut her throat. Their eyes locked and after he smirked at her sprawled position on the floor, he said something to General Iroh.

"The ships are ready to depart, sir. Once we're off, we're projected to be back home before the end of next week—right before your nephew's birthday."

Iroh seemed pleased. He looked at her, a hearty smile tugging the corners of his lips upward, and he gestured to the flap, expecting her to leave. She glanced at the exit and then back to him, her mind reeling. The soldier frowned and departed. And Iroh extended his hand, expecting her to take it.

She did.

And as he started to lead them away, she stomped her foot. Iroh turned to regard her, heavily intrigued. She pointed to him and then to herself. "General Iroh," she said, pointing to him. Pointing to herself, she said, "Katara."

He smiled once more. And without a backwards glance, they left.

* * *

**Reviews greatly appreciated.**


	2. Change

" _The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new."_

**Socrates**

* * *

**XoXoX**

* * *

He noticed the stares, the wandering, curious eyes sometimes filled with grimy hate, sometimes filled with curious amusement, and sometimes narrowed suspiciously, glaring at the young girl sticking close to his side, holding his hand with her trembling digits. He could tell she was scared—and she should've been. Men with pikes, swords, and daggers were all around, blocking them in and guarding them until they were safely aboard—even though there was nothing left to be protected from.

When they finally entered the narrow corridors of the warship, Iroh squeezed her hand, secretly telling her that everything would be okay. She had nothing to fear from him, from the crew, or from the darkened depths of the halls they were pattering down. He watched her bite her bottom lip, chewing nervously as her hands continued to twitch. And he gave her a reassuring smile.

But she wasn't looking up—didn't catch his comforting face—and instead kept squinting, trying to determine where they were headed. He chuckled and her head swirled upward to look at him, gaze questionably into his eyes.

A flicker of fear clouded her face.

"Don't worry, little one," he whispered. "Where we are going is not so—" He paused and pondered; what was he afraid of when he was small? "Dark."

Though she didn't understand him, she seemed to grow encouraged by his soft tone. And that, alone, made him feel better. Reassured that what he was doing was well-received, that she understood she was going to be taken care of and protected. Perhaps cherished or loved, given time.

There was a lengthy verbal silence, a stillness permeated with the sound of his steel-bottomed and her leather-worn boots thudding down the hallway, echoing their presence to whoever was listening. A loud  _clack, clack, clack._ And a soft  _tap, tap, tap_ —barely noticeable.

She muttered something in her own language and he desperately wished to understand her. Communication was important to him; he spent most of his life talking to people, conversing with dignitaries, directing soldiers, and whispering sweet words of encouragement to his niece and nephew—particularly his nephew, who seemed to receive nary a drop of praise from a male figure, his father (Iroh's brother) included. And he couldn't wait until they could properly understand each other—converse beyond a simple grunt to catch each other's attention and a gesture to tell the other what they wanted.

And he nodded, knowing that total immersion was the best teacher. Listening to others speak incessantly would allow her to learn proper phrases and tones. And he would help her achieve a few basic lingual goals by the time they returned home. Perhaps she'd be able to introduce herself to his young nephew after their arrival. Wouldn't that be nice? Zuko might acquire a friend of his own, a confidant not attained through his startlingly devious sister, who seemed keen on using her own friendships against her older brother.

"I cannot wait to educate you," he said. She looked up, a puzzled look on her face, mulling over the foreign sound of his words. "Do you like books?" He waited for a response of some sort and when nothing poured from her lips, he continued. "I used to devour novels and historical texts when I was your age. My father had to drag me out of the library by the heel of my boot." He chuckled. "My personal quarters are filled with tomes from across the world. They're yours to use, if you'd like."

She said nothing and he sighed.

"Everything in my room is free for you to use, actually. If you like drawing, I have paper and inks. If you like food, I can have the chefs prepare anything you wish—within reason, of course. Lemons are hard to come by, down south." He frowned and then cracked a jovial smile. "But Mushi is unusually creative. He can usually whip up a delicious lemon fire-hen with the oils and seasonings we keep on board." He looked at her, expecting something— _anything._ Yet she remained silent, simply staring at him as they continued forward.

He tried to think of other hobbies, more feminine ones. "If you like sewing or needlework, I can procure a needle and thread. Maybe you could amaze me with a dazzling tapestry? A decorative pillow?" No response. "Maybe you fancy knitting or crocheting. I've been longing for a handmade blanket to keep me warm on peculiarly chilly nights. Might you be up for the challenge?"

Nothing.

"Or if you like weaponry—" He shook his head. No, not weapons. Not until she proved trustworthy.

"How about games? Everybody likes games—including myself. I enjoy Pai Sho and Checkers. Solitaire is also a personal favorite, though that game is, obviously, for one person." Another laugh and she continued to stare at him with a curious look on her face. Exhaustion? Did she want him to stop talking?

He continued anyway.

"I think a few of the soldiers have more interesting games for a child. I've seen a yo-yo, a hacky-sack, jacks, a peg game or two. My nephew is always entertained by the triangular one; but again, that's typically for one person. And I'm sure you wouldn't understand without proper instruction."

He looked at her once more and she had an annoyed look on her face. Yes, she definitely wanted him to stop talking. But he wouldn't. Each sentence needed to be heard; each word needed to assail her tiny ears. It was her first introduction to a new language and she needed all the help she could get.

"Ah," he exclaimed, pausing at a steel door. "We've reached my," his face scrunched together, correcting himself, " _our_ quarters."

The door swung inward and he stepped through. Hesitantly, she dropped his hand and followed him, eyes growing large as she examined the expensive wares decorating his chambers. She stood in the middle of his expansive room, wide-eyed and staring, mouth agape. Iroh's quarters were built and designed for a single occupant. Yet, even though he lived alone, his chamber was bigger than the hut that housed her entire family. He could understand her silent awe. The sheer amount of free, unused space probably felt wasteful. And her hands juddered as she reached out to grasp mindlessly at a few of his possessions.

"I like pretty things," he said, stepping around her as he fixed a luscious cushion that had fallen on the floor in his absence. He straightened and watched her amble toward his bookshelf bursting with firebending scrolls, historical tomes, a scant few plays and poems, and a myriad of fantasy novels (old tales with fire-breathing heroes had always been his favored genre and he had pilfered a few books from the royal library before he journeyed south).

"So you  _do_ like to read," he smiled, nearing her now hunched-over form as she fingered the spines, squinting at the oddly written titles.

She pulled out a text and opened it, flicked through the pages before she put it back with a disgusted snarl.

"Upset?" he asked. "I suppose I would be, too, if I liked to read and couldn't understand the words on the page. But don't worry, I'll teach you. And when I can't, I'll make sure you have the best tutors available."

She wandered to the other side of the room and gazed at his prized monkey statue—something he purchased at a deeply discounted rate at the last harbor they had visited. And since he loved bargains, of course he had procured it…and painstakingly carried it back to his vessel by himself since he had neglected to take his usual entourage. He could still feel a  _slight_ twinge in his back when he looked at it, even fondly.

He felt a spasm of pain just then and decided to sit at his table, make himself comfortable. Even from his position on the floor, he could watch her scurry about his room and search through his foreign possessions. He could laugh at her expressions and explain what things were when her unique words sounded questioning.

And she did not disappoint.

With an amused smile on his face, he watched her scramble across the room and to his bed. She poked the mattress and the pillows, and when the goose-feathers bounced back, she gasped and pressed harder, testing its elasticity. After a few careful prods, she punched a pillow and then giggled before jumping onto the bed and rolling across the bedspread, disorganizing it and flinging pillows all around.

Silken pillows landed on the floor with soft bounces, sheets furled about her clenched fists. And after he laughed aloud, she paused amidst her mess and blushed when she sat upright, catching his humored gaze. Meticulously, she replaced each out-of-place pillow, righted each crease, and then walked away from his bed, hiding her face.

The amour was next. Cabinet doors opened and she gawked, transfixed, admiring the endless selection of red-colored outfits. She hesitantly pressed her hand against a random sleeve, pushed her fingers against the oddly silky fabric, and squeaked when the material slid effortlessly betwixt her digits. Her first time seeing silk, perhaps? Probably, considering the natural environment of the south, where a girl would freeze to death in a silken gown.

She warily shut the wooden doors and scrambled to the other side of the room, where his priceless collection of unique teapots was displayed with immaculate delicacy. He cringed when she picked up a pot, balanced it in her tiny hand, and then exhaled gratefully when she put it back, a determined and practiced scowl on her face, tip of her tongue sticking out with her concentration.

He sighed at her carefulness. At least she had sensed he was uncomfortable with her touching his more expensive and treasured possessions. And she had hastily—and cautiously—put his teapot back in its rightful place, looking at him out of the corner of her eye as she turned the handle just so. Perfection once more.

There was one more chest that Iroh didn't want her prodding into; it was filled with a collection of weapons and ceremonial paraphernalia, things that made him look threatening and regal when he traveled throughout the world or met with diplomats. Pointy things; daggers that could kill and slice, maliciously maim even with an unskilled hand. In the future, he'd need to lock it. But for now, he would keep her away from it. Far, far away. And while she was walking to the chest filled with dangerous artifacts, he cleared his throat, catching her attention.

"Why don't we share another cup of tea? Lunch should be ready soon, and I'm sure you're famished. And then afterwards, why don't you take a short nap? I have to talk to my officers and I can tell you're exhausted."

She didn't hide her annoyed huff, but she joined him anyway, plopping on the cushion he gestured to. And he immediately busied himself with teatime preparations, crushing leaves and pouring boiling water, filling cups and wafting burgeoning steam.

He sipped; she sipped. And a contented silence filled the room.

* * *

**XoXoX**

" _Growth is painful. Change is painful. But nothing is as painful as staying stuck somewhere you don't belong."_

**N.R. Narayana Murthy**

**XoXoX**

* * *

She didn't like him watching her every move. Was he evaluating her expressions, judging what to do with her?

It was like those soldiers they passed earlier. Even though their faces had been covered with mesh masks, she could feel them staring, see them glaring at the blue-clad girl who didn't belong on their warship, holding their general's startlingly warm hand. If they had been given the choice, she would've been slain with the rest, left to deteriorate in the snow—be eaten unceremoniously by wildlife and consumed by the environment.

Their gazes unsettled her. Made her nervous.

And when Iroh had squeezed her hand and led her down an alarmingly dark hallway, her apprehension grew. Her only thought: what if her captor—her tribe's murderer—was an ill man who enjoyed torturing his subjects, a man who imagined cruel ways to dismember the human body or torment a soul. What if she was being lead to an untimely demise, unable to fulfill her wish: kill whatever—whoever—he loved most.

He stared at her over the rim of his drawn teacup, and then blew into it to dispel imaginary dust.  _Was_ he insane?

He didn't scold her when she tore through his room—bounced on his bed (admittedly lost herself with childish antics—a bed with  _feathers?_ Unheard of!), rummaged through his closet (who had enough clothes to fill an entire  _closet?)_ , looked at a book ( _worthless—_ couldn't read it), and grabbed a teapot (which made him squirm, albeit slightly—mental note made:  _touch Iroh's teapots to make him uncomfortable_ ). He only said something when she neared a chest, which she also noted ( _look inside as soon as able_ ). And though he appeared relaxed and calm, she wondered if he truly was.

Carefully leering at his fingers, she watched him meticulously organize their tea, expertly prepare the scalding beverage with refined skill. And after a short while, a cup was placed in front her, steam frizzling the tangles of her hair. Loops, once finely brushed and pinned back, became haggard and warped. And she huffed, wondering if she was ill. Two cups of tea in the same afternoon? Was her temperature spiking? Was she coming down with a cold? Gran Gran only made her drink tea when she was feverish and sickly, and even then it was a vile concoction—a chunky, soupy mixture with crushed-up sea prunes and slivers of seaweed. Almost inedible and unsurprisingly difficult to drink.

She didn't feel sick and checked her forehead, pushing the tousled mess of brown locks out of her face, pressing the back of her head against her temple. Nope, no fever. Hands clenched. Nope, not clammy. Tongue out. Nope, nothing stuck to it; and as far as she could tell, it looked…normal. Normal enough, at least. No grumbles of doom—no upset tummy.

Healthy. Yet given tea.

Suspicious.

The obvious conclusion was poison. The red-tinted liquid was bursting with a drug—something to knock her unconscious or debilitate her. Render her immobile so he could conduct his obscene experiments.

Convinced that the liquid in front of her was tampered with, she watched him take a long, distinguished sip. And once she saw him swallow (what sane person would contaminate their own beverage?), she grabbed her cup and slurped, satisfied that the concoction in front of her clearly  _wasn't_ poisoned.

Another sip, this one loud. Desperate _._  She didn't realize how thirsty she was.

"Is it good?" His tone was questioning and amused, and even though she didn't understand him, she took another sip, this time more careful—less slurpy. And though there was less noise, she blushed, discomfited by his humored and pleased expression, lips tugged upward in a gentle, jovial smile. Then she scowled, disappointed with her crimson-toned cheeks, evidence of her embarrassment.

She scrubbed her cheeks, rubbed  _hard_ , smearing her skin with greedy, uncoordinated swipes, unhelpfully making her flesh a darker shade, a chocolate-hued strawberry. And he chuckled at her antics.

A blue glare crossed the table. "I don't like being laughed at," she said in her own language, under her breath. The words were harsh, abrupt. Scolding. She wanted him to stop laughing, wanted his immediate silence.

But he continued to smile. And his exposed teeth enraged her, made her blood boil.

Growling, she got to her feet.  _Why_ was he laughing at her? How could he fill the air with his mindless chitter? How could he laugh after what he had just done? Enslaving her, murdering her tribe—how was that  _funny_? How could he be joyous after walking past slaughtered children pressed tight against their dead mothers? How could he try to talk to her after everything he had just destroyed? An entire tribe, an entire culture, an entire  _people._ Gone, like they never existed. Gone, like they never mattered.

She didn't  _belong_ there, sitting across from him and drinking tea. She belonged with her family—with Sokka and her dad,  _wherever_ they were.

A teacup flew across the room and shattered against the wall. Immediately, Iroh's gaze hardened, lips pressed into a tight line.

He looked…scary. Terrifying. And for a moment, she seriously feared for her life and grabbed the remaining saucer, hoping that the frilly porcelain could shield whatever attack was coming, praying that she would survive so she could get her family the justice they deserved.

He said something in a dark, threatening tone ("You must be tired.") and it made her nervous. She bit her lip, plopped back into her seat, and put on her best sad face (Gran Gran  _usually_ fell for it, so maybe he would, too).

He did not.

Instead, he stood and walked to another cabinet with glass doors—something she didn't bother checking since she could clearly see through it. He rummaged through cups and saucers, plates and various china, spoons, forks, and knives, until he began pulling out bottles with cork stoppers. Various-sized flasks filled the small shelf attached to the cabinet until he found the one he wanted. Satisfied with the dark green vile, he turned and snatched a new teacup while she protested, "Don't you  _dare_ poison me, you—"

"You must be tired," he repeated while he dispensed a few green-tinted drops into the red-tinged brew bubbling out of her new cup. He placed the teacup in front of her, giving her a look that suggested she listen to his every word—follow his every order without question. "Drink."

She did not.

The teacup made a screeching sound as he pushed it closer to her. "Drink," he suggested again, tone commanding.

She did not, and glared at him instead, lips pressed tight together in case he decided to force-feed her the  _definitely_ poisoned concoction.

"Last chance," he bit out, jaw twisting beneath his beard, eyes blazing into a molten-colored gold. " _Drink._ "

And she did. Fingers trembling, teacup wobbling, she did. A big gulp, dribbles of poison down her chin, and an exhausted inhale after she had drained it. And after she was finished, she looked at him, a petrified expression on her face, eyes blinking through a myriad of burgeoning tears. "Am I going to die?" she asked softly.

Their verbal barrier was frustrating, exceedingly so since her query remained unanswered. Eventually—assuming she wasn't truly poisoned—she'd have to learn his language, spend countless hours delving into the odd phonics of his horrible-sounding, lumpy words. But for now—assuming she  _was_ poisoned—she needed to take advantage of her potential final chance to hurt him, even if she was clearly outmatched.

She needed to attack; bludgeon him with the teapot, claw his eyes out, immobilize him with the very toxin she was forced to consume (could she force him to drink the entire bottle? Maybe, if she caught him off-guard).

But her eyes were blearily closing against her will, making her head bob sporadically as she tried to keep upright. The poison he gave her was fast-acting, and now, she doubted she'd be able to stand, much less try and attack him. Exhaustion was quickly taking hold; the combination of new stimuli, a man who  _refused_ to shut up, and the contents of the green-tinted vile were steadily wearing her down. And she slumped forward against the table, eyes blinking as she tried to focus on the swirly floral pattern on her teacup.

As she slouched and drifted, he said something in that oddly comforting voice of his, pausing slightly mid-sentence like he expected her to understand ("When you wake, you'll feel better…I promise."). And she wanted to look into his eyes, see the cryptic and knowledgeable glitter, but she didn't have the strength.

_Thump._

The sound of her head hitting the table pounded through her ears. It was almost debilitating, but then there was nothing. Just a dreamy, lovely silence. And then a nightmare filled with the squishy sounds of people dying.

* * *

**XoXoX**

_"If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude."_

**Maya Angelou**

**XoXoX**

* * *

She woke up with a panicked jolt, careening forward with a violent lurch, unaware of where she was or how she got there, eyes adjusting slightly to the dimly lit room, blinking aggressively. Firelight flickered from the walls, a low and steady blaze. The fireplace, she assumed, with Gran Gran's seaweed and whale blubber stew bubbling with the heat, tonight's dinner.

She must have fallen asleep, must have slipped away a little before lunch. But if she had, Sokka would've poked her awake at some point, mumbling about her laziness and scoffing at her childish desire for sleep after she  _promised_ she could stay awake for an entire day without getting irritable. But he hadn't. And whatever she was sleeping on was too fluffy to be a matted hide.

Blue eyes focused on the steel wall in front of her, scared and suddenly remembering. She wasn't home, wasn't snugly tucked away between her favorite hand-crafted quilt and treasured polar bear skin. She wasn't smelling Gran Gran's thickened soup or feeling the heat from a roaring fire.

The floor beneath her bottom rocked, confirming her location. She was on a ship; imprisoned or enslaved—she still wasn't sure which—awaiting whatever fate her captor deemed worthy. And she groaned, stretching forward, reaching for a decorative pillow nestled carefully by her feet. After sneering at the silk fabric (why was everything she touched  _slippery?)_ she rolled off whatever she was on, landing on the floor with an uncoordinated  _bang_.

A blanket was wrapped around her legs and she struggled with the thick fabric before furling it off and away, chucking it to whatever she had been laying on—an elongated windowsill with thick padding and a ridiculous amount of pillows, a place to view the passing ocean beneath the bowels of the ship. A window seat converted into a bed big enough for her small frame.

Remembering her recent poisoning, she grasped different body parts, making sure that her arms, legs, hair, toes, and fingers were all still there. Satisfied that nothing was surgically removed during her forced slumber, she sighed and sat upright, leering at the room, making sure that she was alone.

She was.

There was no lumbering Iroh lounging about his apartments, filling up the air with swirls of steam or an endless array of foreign words (she'd have to get him to shut up, somehow; his incessant talking was annoying). There was nobody else in the room, just her. Alive and well.

And she relaxed, a smug smirk on her face.

_The cabinet,_ she thought as she crawled onto her feet, scrambling toward the object that Iroh obviously didn't want her near.

It was probably filled with dangerous paraphernalia, like pointy things that would allow her to properly retaliate, sharp and dangerous things that were cared for almost daily; daggers polished until they gleamed, knives honed with a whetstone, glittering spikes that could easily slide into skin, no matter the user's expertise. And when she finally made it to the heavily-decorated dresser, she jiggled the handle. And wiggled. And hit it when it didn't budge.

Locked.

A groan, an irritated noise.

"Like he doesn't  _trust_ me or something," she mumbled, turning on the ball of her foot, headed toward the lowered table where Iroh liked to give her poisoned tea.

She stopped, staring at the lukewarm platter of foreign food on the tabletop. Her stomach growled aggressively and she reached for her tummy to quiet the rumbles. One step. And then another. And she shook her head, telling herself  _no, no, no_.

He'd already poisoned her tea, which meant that the odd-looking food could also be tainted. Distrusting the offered meal with a frown, she bypassed the table and returned to the window seat, staring outside, where ice drifts passed down below, occasionally lightening the window with whitened shadows. They were soothing, and she watched until she heard a faint  _click._

* * *

**XoXoX**

_"Change your thoughts and you change your world."_

**Norman Vincent Peale**

**XoXoX**

* * *

Like usual, the meetings were droll, filled with wordy strategies and salutes to excellence, filled with old men like himself who wanted to extend the Fire Lord's lands and rule. His three favored officers pulled him aside after the discussion concluded, asking about the Water Tribe girl locked in his room—purely for her own protection, he'd argue. They told him things he already assumed: most of the crew wanted her dead or bound, chucked into the sea for their own protection. And though he understood their concerns, it wasn't their decision to make. The girl would live—would be protected—and they would have to get over it. He was their commanding officer, their Crown Prince, and her future was his to decide.

When he finally made it to his door, he sighed as he twisted a key. The door swung open and he ambled through the steel opening, footsteps halting when he noticed his young charge awake with her forearms pressed tightly against the window, staring outside and admiring the large icebergs beyond her reach.

His gaze dropped to the uneaten lunch on the table. He had asked Mushi to leave it behind, hopeful that the girl would eat when she woke. But she hadn't, and he wondered how hungry she was. The sound of her stomach gurgling was proof enough and he rubbed his temple, worried, but hiding his concerned face from the girl who had turned her head to look at him, blue eyes wistful and wondering.

"Not hungry?" he asked, gesturing to the meal.

Her baby blues followed and she shook her head, the universal sign for 'no,' even if she didn't understand his question.

"Thirsty, then?" he asked, remembering how she gulped her tea.

She shook her head again, still not understanding.

"The crew wants me to execute you," he said with a sad smile. "And maybe if you'd stop attacking me and start  _listening_ to me, I'd be more inclined to disagree with them." He sat down and picked at her uneaten lunch, stealing a pinch of fireflakes. "Mmmm," he said after swallowing. "Delicious."

Her legs slid off the window seat and dangled from the edge, watching him eat the food she had suspected was hers (and assumed was tainted). Her head tilted questionably, eyes narrowing as she realized the odd sustenance wasn't poisoned. Her stomach protested the sight and she grabbed for it, digging her fingers into the blue fabric of her tunic.

"It  _is_ yours if you'd like. If not, it'll go to waste." He patted his expansive belly and softly chuckled. "And I'm not usually one to waste food."

_Thump_ and she was off the windowsill, taking slow steps to sit at the table again. She placed her elbow on the surface and poked the white stuff (lemon-roasted fire hen) on her plate, not knowing what it was and not knowing if it would turn her stomach into a knotted mess. The metal fork fidgeted and crinkled in her hand and she eventually slammed it into the white mess; it stuck straight up, bobbing slightly, unnaturally. And she pushed her plate away.

"You didn't even try it," Iroh said, disappointed.

She rubbed her eyes, pushed back her hair, and opened her mouth—aiming to protest—but instead closed her lips and adopted a confused expression. He was talking again; talking a lot. And she wanted him to quiet down. Maybe trying something different would appease him? Maybe trying something different would benefit them both?

But not the food. That stuff was weird.

Her eyebrows scrunched downward and she started moving her tongue in her mouth while Iroh was talking—talking fast, too. ("I know it's not what you're used to. And I don't know what you'd usually eat. So you're just going to have to get used to the food Mushi makes; otherwise, you'll slowly starve—").

"Tey—" She sounded out the first letter of the word she wanted, the word Iroh had used the most often. He stopped his unusual chatter and stared at her curiously, heavily intrigued. "Teh." She shook her head; no, that wasn't right. The word was missing something. "Tea." Yes, that was it. She nodded. "Tea," she said again, a smirk plastered on her face.

Iroh's smile grew large and he nodded. "Very good, Katara," he said, proud. "Tea." Delighted with her linguistic attempt, he slipped into silence and prepared his favorite beverage.

* * *

**Please let me know what you think! Reviews are extraordinarily motivating! And since I focus on the fics with the most interest during my writing time, reviews/kudos/subscriptions/bookmarks will get this piece pushed to the top of my list! So if you want to see this fic updated _fast,_ let me know what you think!**


	3. Learning

" _People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."_

**Maya Angelou**

* * *

**XoXoX**

* * *

Iroh labeled every single article in his room, tacking slips of parchment on his walls and possessions, muttering near-silent curses as the pins slipped and pricked his fingers. Katara listened to every word, tasted each syllable before relaying them back, even the ones he didn't want her repeating. She had already memorized a few basic words: table, window, ice, water, food, sleep, bed, and—of course—tea. And he seemed proud of her feat.

And even though a few exhaustive hours had passed, she pretended to be delighted with his tutelage. If he wanted, she would spend the rest of the evening enunciating different nouns and verbs, rolling through r's with a light trill, and hissing out s's like an arctic mink-snake. He was captivated with her development, smiling every so often to let her know she was progressing to his liking. And when a soft knock resounded across his room, Iroh pointed and said, "Door."

"D—" She stewed over the odd 'uh' sound, and then proudly said, "Doe." Her face scrunched together, realizing her mistake. "Do—or," she corrected, lengthening the word unnecessarily.

"Again," Iroh said as he stood.

She recognized the command (though she was only guessing at its meaning) and tried again. "Do-or." Better, but not completely correct. "Door."

"Excellent," Iroh smiled as the steel swung inward.

A smile meant praise and Katara squirmed in her seat and sipped her tea, pleased with her accomplishment. One more word down, a million more to go. She frowned at that, and then puckered her lips, downed the remainder of her cup with a hearty swallow; Iroh liked it when she enjoyed her tea—drank enthusiastically—and she would humor him, if only to further lure him to his eventual doom.

_Tap. Tap._  Booted feet against steel.

She looked up and saw the man she detested more than the man who delighted himself with simple wiles like tea.  _The captain._ And she glared, two ocean-blue orbs narrowed suspiciously at the officer who murdered her brother—tried to murder her, too.

"General Iroh." His hazel eyes caught hers, and his expression morphed into something that was hard to explain; it was a curious mixture of revulsion, rage, and contempt. And she fidgeted on her plush, crimson cushion, looking like an out-of-place blue splotch in a sea of red. And when Iroh closed the door with a soft  _click,_ his trance broke and he turned slightly, facing his superior. "General Iroh, the men are still concerned," he said, gesturing toward her.

Katara gripped her teacup tighter, knuckles whitening and knowing the subject of their blossoming conversation: her. Yes, they were about to talk about her,  _in front of_ her, which she found especially frustrating since she couldn't properly understand them. Though, she didn't need to understand the captain's words to know that the topic of choice was about to become very negative; it was his eyes and mannerisms that gave him away. Those eyes—those brown specks hidden beneath a cloud of heartlessness—spoke volumes: he could see her for what she really was, could see deep down into her soul and corner the malice Iroh had yet to fully embrace. And though she desperately tried to hide her true intent—her purpose for learning the vile language of a monstrous nation, for sipping an endless amount of tea, for tolerating a murderer's company—he could see it anyway, correctly judge her and warn his superior of her justice-seeking nature.

She couldn't afford to be afraid of him, though. So she kept looking at him, watching his every move, listening to his every word, memorizing each syllable. Maybe she'd be able to figure out what his words meant after a while, figure out if the officer was a true threat or if she was being touchy and paranoid.

Unfortunately, she had a feeling she was judging him correctly: he wanted her dead. And she couldn't blame him; the feeling was mutual.

"She's uncivilized," the captain said, sparing another glance in her direction. Iroh's golden-hued gaze followed, resting upon her furrowed and curious brow. "She doesn't understand our culture or our social norms. And you can't expect her to learn the complexities of our society overnight. You  _must_ dispose of her—put her out of her certain misery. I implore you to re-evaluate your decision, sir. For your safety," he paused, "and for the nation's."

There was an uncomfortable silence. A long, long period of awkward nothingness until the captain cleared his throat.

"Sir?"

"I heard you. And her name is Katara." Iroh sighed and tiredly closed his eyes.

"You've  _named_ it?" the captain spat. Iroh frowned. "Sir, this isn't some silly little creature you've plucked from a back-alley shop."

"I'm aware."

"This isn't some Earth Kingdom slave you've decided to set free."

"I know."

"Sir, if you know these things, then why haven't you disposed of her?"

"Captain, I understand and appreciate your concerns, but my decision is final. She will live; I will teach, nourish, clothe, and care for her until she decides to get married, continue her education, or—"

"You think she has a  _future_  back home?"

"Her potential is endless."

"Regardless of her suspected potential—" He turned away and mumbled under his breath (" _which I doubt she has")_ "–our people will never accept her." The captain gestured outward, hand trailing up and down in the air, indicating her; all of her. " _Look_  at her, sir." Iroh did. "Look at her and see what everybody else sees—what  _I_  see. Look at her skin, her hair, her eyes. She's not Fire Nation, and it's blatantly obvious that she doesn't belong here. She's a savage and she should've met the same fate as the rest of her people." There was a dignified pause and a careful exhale, an evaluation of sorts. "You're torturing her by keeping her alive. Think of the future you're offering. Think of the stares, the criticisms, the rumors. Nobody will accept her once they discover her origins. She'll live an empty life, a sad life; she'll be alone and ostracized, neglected."

"Not everybody is as critical as you."

The captain reeled and then snorted. "Some people are much worse." He ran his hand over his top-knotted head and let out an exhausted breath. "And what about you, sir?"

Iroh blinked. "Me?"

"You're keeping her in your personal quarters." He shot her a quick glance and then leaned close to Iroh, narrowing his eyes and whispering, "You're  _sleeping_ in the same room as her."

Iroh blinked again. "And?"

"Each night is an opportunity, a chance to retaliate."

"Oh, I don't think she has those sorts of convictions in her."

A disrespectful puff, almost a growl. "Really, sir? Look into her barbaric eyes and tell me you don't see the swirls of hatred. Look at her stature and tell me you don't see how tense she is, how she's constantly waiting for an attack of some sort."

"Technically," Iroh shrugged, "she has the appropriate body language. You  _are_ threatening her right now."

"With good reason, sir. If she slices your throat while you sleep, our nation will grieve and scramble behind your brother. Do you  _want_ Ozai leading the most powerful country in the world?"

A sigh. "No." Coarse fingers gripped a nose, pinching it before digging into the corners of weary eyes. "If he ascends the daises, the world will enter an era of unbridled turmoil."

Katara watched the captain smile and hum, considering Iroh's words. A flicker of amusement passed over his face and she desperately wanted to understand the conversation she could  _clearly_ overhear. If only she knew more than a handful of nouns and verbs.

They continued whispering and she stifled a frustrated snarl, ravenously curious. Neither had said anything that was remotely recognizable, except something that sounded suspiciously like the word 'sleep'; though, it seemed oddly out of place. But was it? Maybe they were discussing her curious sleeping arrangement.

The elongated window sill seemed bizarre and silly; it  _was_ a short walk from Iroh's bed, which meant that she'd be able to smother him in his sleep if she wanted. (Shouldn't she have been directed to sleep elsewhere? Perhaps behind a locked door so she couldn't threaten his prone, unconscious form.) And though she had plenty of opportunities to kill him during the first few nights of her stay, she spent her sleepless nights awake, doubting she had the energy or strength. And honestly, she couldn't waste a single moment of rest.

Because Iroh snored.

A lot.

A lot, a lot.

Enough to rival Sokka and her dad combined, which left her frustrated and restless, tossing and turning, irritated and unsurprisingly sad as she compared the annoying traits of her brother to the ridiculously outlandish traits of her captor. And suddenly, she was depressed, thinking about kicking her brother awake in the middle of the night, listening to his groggy grunts until he quieted, smacking his lips together until she drifted off.

Mindlessly, she stared at the captain, not really looking at him, but  _looking_ in his direction, eyes unfocused as she reminisced. Everything felt suddenly cold and debilitating. The memories of her deceased family were rightfully sad—painful—and she blinked and twisted her fingers against her teacup, hoping that its warmth would spread through her chilled hands.

It didn't.

Realizing that she was staring at him—wholeheartedly judging his every movement and facial expression (even when Iroh wasn't looking at him directly)—the captain licked his bottom lip and turned, still whispering. "Sir, just…think about what I've said."

"I will."

A nod and a bow. "Thank you."

Then he left, shoulders rigid and hands clasped firmly behind his back. Smug. Like he just won a battle of wits, which Katara seriously doubted.

Iroh turned. He looked bewildered and concerned, confused and deep in thought. There, but not  _there._ Like she had been a few moments ago. Like how she felt at night when she desperately wanted to be alone; to cry, to think, to  _remember._ Pathetic and sad.

Without a word, he sat. And sipped. And sipped. And sipped until there was nothing left, distracted with his thoughts. Katara stared, intrigued with this new and unusual development (a  _silent_  Iroh? Curious). Whatever had just been discussed was weighing heavily on his mind; burdened him enough to have forgotten her lessons, which was refreshingly unlike him. But potentially bad.

So she remained silent, sitting opposite him, staring at her empty teacup, waiting. A normal Iroh would've filled her porcelain cup by now. He would've talked incessantly—aggravatingly nonstop—while he completed each small task, using every possible moment as a teaching tool. Flicked his wrist in the appropriate spots, drained the dregs just so, lifted the edge of his sleeve so an uncharacteristic spill wouldn't soil his silken robes. But he wasn't doing any of those things. He was just…sitting.

Nope, not good. Not, not good.

Katara tilted her head, bit her lip, and after a few minutes of contemplative silence, she stood and rummaged through his cabinets. She pushed unfamiliar bottles to the side— _clack, clack, clack—_ and dug deep, looking for familiar artifacts. Things she had seen on her miniature adventures around Iroh's quarters while he was away plotting more unnecessary and avoidable deaths, scheming attacks that would leave behind widows and screaming children. Perhaps envisioning which child he could kidnap next.

With a scoff, she filled her arms and felt his eyes on her back, watching her every movement, her every footfall. And when she had finally collected everything remotely familiar—anything she thought she would need or had seen Gran Gran or Iroh use—she plopped on her cushion, righted each item in her arms, and began her experiment.

She dumped water into a kettle, tongue poking out with her concentration ( _don't spill, don't spill_ ). Once filled, she gently maneuvered the very heavy kettle onto the brazier. And then she purged her collected items, rifled through everything she had gathered.  _No spark rocks._ She grumbled but then looked up, catching Iroh's humored gaze.

She snapped her fingers at him.  _Snap! Snap!_  And pointed to the unlit ring underneath the brazier's rack. "Whoosh," she said, depicting the sound of flames. And when he did nothing but stare, she pointed again, more aggressive.  _Snap! Snap!_

After a hearty chuckle, Iroh shifted his index finger and fired a controlled flame. The brazier lit instantly and Katara eyed the kettle, palm cupping her cheek as she watched and waited. And after a few minutes, the kettle screamed— _Weeeeeee!—_ and she grabbed it, carefully wrapped her cushioned fingers around the wooden handle. Off the brazier. Onto a pad on the table.

She centered a teapot in front of her and lifted the cap. Poured a portion of boiling water into the pot and closed the lid. Waited a bit more and dumped the now-lukewarm water out of the pot, just as she had seen Iroh do time and time again. And when she dumped the last of the boiling water into the teapot, she bit her lip and glanced at her captor.

Iroh was grinning. No teeth, not really smiling, but expression amused and jovial. Much better than he had been a few minutes ago.

So Katara calmly exhaled and poked through the metal tin she had collected, popped open the top and stared helplessly at the contents. Bundles of dried leaves stored in meticulously organized cubicles, marked in a foreign, swirly script. She didn't know what she was really looking at, only that it was a  _lot_ of different hues, colors she had never seen before—burnt crimsons, dirty greens, dusty yellows, a vibrant blue, and an oddly-quarantined orange tucked beneath a see-through covering.

She pointed once more, gesturing to one cubby and then another. And Iroh shook his head each time, telling her no, no, no. A nod ( _yes!_ ) and Katara pinched a large portion and tossed it into the teapot. Covered the opening and cleaned up her mess—an errant leaf, unwilling to suffer an honorable, super-heated death, a few splotches of water, and the brazier with its surging flames.  _Poof!_  And the fire stuttered and puttered out.  _Swish!_  And her sleeve mopped up her spill.

More waiting, fingernail taps on the tabletop. And then a whimsical lean forward, one blue eye over the lid as she peered inside. Iroh cleared his throat, shook his head ("Not yet, little one.") and Katara returned to her seat, puckering her lips like an impatient fish.

After a few grueling minutes—tea took  _forever_ to steep—Iroh tapped the table and Katara jolted forward, grabbed the teapot and shuffled a strainer onto Iroh's cup. She poured, delicately, carefully.  _Slowly._ And the tea dribbled out, sputtering from the spout. A few droplets littered the table, but she swiped them to the side with her sleeve once more, scrubbed the table's wooden surface. And when everything was tidy, she pushed the teacup forward, expression expectant, holding her breath. Waiting for Iroh's evaluation.

He blew. And sipped. And hid a sour face behind his sleeve. "It's very…bracing," he sputtered, feigning a soft smile.

Katara nodded like she understood—proud of his praise (because that's what smiles were)—and poured herself a cup. Swallowed. Made an uncomfortable, disgusted face. And spat it out. "Blech!"

She fumed and tossed the contents of her cup back into the pot. And then she folded her arms across her chest while Iroh laughed at her frustration.

Her leg bounced and then she looked up, catching the last few moments of Iroh's chuckles. She blinked. Then pulled back her lips, bared her teeth.  _Smiled._  And Iroh smiled back. But as he did, Katara leaned forward and inspected his expression, studied his polished teeth.

His smiles did not always mean praise. Sometimes they were just polite gestures. And she needed to learn the difference between the two.

* * *

**XoXoX**

" _I made decisions that I regret, and I took them as learning experiences. I'm human, not perfect, like everybody else."_

**Queen Latifah**

**XoXoX**

* * *

He couldn't help but laugh. Each move she made—each uncoordinated pour, swipe with her sleeve, moment with her tongue poked out—was undeniably adorable and uplifting. It was the very reason she needed to be saved, needed to be protected and cherished, nourished and cared for.

She tried again, and again. And again. And again. And again.

And each time, she used herself as a guinea-pig-okeet, spitting out sips, scraping her tongue with her fingernails. Disgusted and disappointed. But never willing to give up.

And after the eighth pot of tea—so many wasted leaves!—he stopped her. Fingers trembling—thank goodness he was the Fire Nation's Crown Prince and able to afford such waste—he stopped her. And she looked at him, embarrassment and shame filling the small crevices of her face.

She whispered something in her own language, something soft and sad, disappointed and a little whiny ("Why can't I do this?") and he sighed and clasped her hand. She jumped, albeit slightly, and he grinned. Proud.

"Practice makes perfect, little one," he said, understanding her frustration. "And I don't wish to brag, but you have an exquisite teacher. So you'll be a master brewer in no time." He winked and her face squished together. She winked, practicing his mannerisms. And he patted her hand, smiled once more, and began his own teatime preparations.

And while the tea steeped, Iroh watched the little girl across the table. Her lips were puckered, eyes narrowed, cheeks thinned yet childishly plump. She slumped forward—very unladylike (he'd have to work on that)—elbows pressed snug into the table, one palm hidden in her brown, curly locks. She looked wistful, satisfied. Happy.

And yet, he worried about her.

Iroh's gaze focused on his charge's unfamiliar characteristics, the traits that would make her stand out in a Fire Nation crowd. Tan skin, blue eyes, unruly hair, a foreign language. Such things wouldn't go unnoticed. Such things would be frowned upon, snickered at. And he sighed and looked away, rubbed the back of his neck with a soothing, warm palm.

He couldn't argue with his captain. The man was correct; society wouldn't see Katara the way he saw her. They would judge. They would talk, whisper, and gossip about her lineage.  _Scandal,_ they'd say.  _Abomination,_ they'd mutter behind their silken sleeves.  _Barbarian. Throat-cutter. Savage._

And as Katara grew, as she learned and understood his language and his people, would she understand? Would she hear the vile rumors spreading in her wake as she tiptoed throughout the palace, throughout Caldera? Would she need to keep her guard up, ready for an attack, ready to be assassinated purely because she was different? Purely because she didn't have pale skin, golden eyes, black hair pulled taut, stick-straight? Purely because he invited her into his country—into his home?

Iroh rubbed a knot in his shoulder, dug into his muscles to relieve burgeoning stress.

When he thought about bringing her home, he envisioned a grandiose return. A parade, fireworks, astounding street-side performances filled with jugglers, fire-breathers, and contortionists. And Katara would be tight against his side, pulling his sleeve, delighted. Squealing at the sight and enthralled with his city, with her potential future. He could already see her as a blossomed, beautiful young woman, smiling at him, repeating poetry with excellent articulation, impressing her tutors and earning the respect of her peers.

But would she? Could she?

Was it torture to take her to his homeland? Was it cruel to show her a new world, to gift her with potential she could never fulfill?

"Ee-roh?"

Her voice broke his reverie and he grinned at the poor attempt at his name (he'd have to work on that, too). "Iroh," he corrected.

"Iroh," she said. And she tapped the teapot— _clink, clink—_ and pushed her cup forward.

"I'm sorry, little one," he said. "I'm not usually so distracted."

He filled her cup and she tilted her head, pursed her lips as she regarded him. And then she shrugged and drank her tea. Still content, still unaware. Happy. Not a care in the world.

"Ice," she muttered in a sing-song voice. "Sleep, table, window, water, food, bed, door." She sipped and smiled. "Tea."

"Very good, Katara." His expression sobered. "Very good."

**XoXoX**

"Water!"

Iroh peered over the top of his scroll, saw Katara perched on her makeshift bed, fingers splayed on the small sill, forehead smooshed against the glass. Her brown tresses blocked most of the window and he struggled to see through the curly mess his brushes could not tame.

"Water!" she screamed again, waving one arm behind her, urging him to look. He stood and stifled an aged grunt. A joint cracked. "Water, water,  _water_!" she exclaimed as he neared.

"Hush, now, little one. What's so—?"

Iroh's eyes widened and he gripped his charge's shoulder, pulled her away from the churning sea beneath them. The blackened swirls rolled and the ship lurched. Katara fell backward and grumbled, rubbed her backside and glowered at the window. Iroh stood steady and frowned at the darkening sky.

"This is bad," he whispered.

"Bad?" Katara echoed, scrambling onto her bed. She pressed into his side and furrowed her brow.

"Very bad," Iroh said.

"Bad." She nodded and chirped, "Bad, bad, bad."

"Katara." She quieted and Iroh pulled her away from the window once more. He sat her down, piled cushions around her. She kicked them away, fighting—growling—until the ship swayed and she toppled. And then she pulled every soft thing imaginable toward her; blankets, pillows, cushions,  _everything._ And she disappeared underneath a padded cocoon.

"Ee-roh!" she called out. Her voice was frantic, pained. Scared.

And though he understood her fear, he shushed her. "Stay calm, Katara. It'll be over soon."

An arm burst out. Frightened blue eyes followed. "Soon?"

"Yes, soon."

Iroh carefully shuffled from one corner of his room to the other, tying prized possessions down and closing drawers. He locked each one and thrust a gilded key into his pocket. And then he watched Katara's blankets tremble as the ship tilted and creaked. Groaned and grumbled. Wailed.

And he flung himself over his charge, protecting her, bracing for impact.

_Errrr!_

Somewhere beyond the relative safety of his quarters, metal bent under nature's divine will.  _Crash!_ And the floor pitched forward, sending a few teapots flying.  _Smash! Clang!_

Though his room morphed into chaos, Iroh didn't stumble; he stood firm, balanced. And while he sheltered the fidgeting girl beneath him, the ship balked and sputtered, creaked and heaved, and he gripped a bolted table for more stability and huffed. His door slammed open and shrieks filtered inside. Not cries of terror. Orders. And Iroh knew where he needed to be.

"Katara." A pair of blue eyes locked onto him. "Stay here. I'm needed in the helm."

She nodded like she understood and he retreated into the screaming hallway. " _Sir! Sir!"_  People shuffled around him, shoved past him so they could get to their posts. They were respectful but anxious. And he let them filter through. But as he did, he neglected to bolt his door.

And as he rushed forward, up the stairs and around the corner, his door clapped behind him, its noise drowned out with the hysteria.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

* * *

**XoXoX**

" _While I thought that I was learning how to live, I have been learning how to die."_

**Leonardo da Vinci**

**XoXoX**

* * *

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Katara huddled between six blankets and twelve pillows. She had counted. Four times, now.

The ship reeled—her stomach with it. And she slanted forward and closed her eyes, prayed to Tui and La for her life.  _Not yet,_  she begged.  _Not yet._

Not when she had justice to dole out. Not when she hadn't met the person or thing Iroh cared for most. Not when she hadn't taken it, him, or her from her tribe's murderer while he watched, immobilized, pleading— _begging_.

She squished her eyes tight— _tighter_ —until everything disappeared. "I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'll be fine," she breathed, trying to calm down.

_Bang! Bang! Screech!_

And she trembled, unaware of the steel door closing softly behind her. Unaware of the footsteps drawing near.

"It's just a few waves," a voice said. Katara sucked in a breath, held it, and kept it inside. She knew that voice, hated that voice. A man sighed and continued, tone bored. "You'd think the world was ending with all the screaming out there." A snort. "Greenhorns."

Katara punched the menagerie of blankets away from her head and glowered at the amused smirk on the captain's smug face.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," he said, smiling. And Katara studied his smile, considered what it meant. It wasn't praise, it wasn't polite. The captain's glittering teeth held malice and knowledge, ill-begotten ideas and mischief. And she didn't like it. Especially when he sat down next to her like the rolling waves meant nothing to him, like he had spent his entire life aboard a boat, traversing hazardous seas.

"What do you want?" she growled.

A chuckle, unkind and unfriendly. "You see," he said, pointing, "this is why you should've been left behind. I can't understand you.  _Nobody_ can understand you."

"What do you want?" she repeated, fists clenching.

He sniffed. "You should've been left behind to decay with the rest of your savage people," he said, examining his nails as silverware poured out of an unlocked drawer. "But  _no,_ our fierce leader thinks he can nurture you. Help you. Keep you like another one of his adorned trinkets.  _Raise you like the child he lost._ "

His eyes narrowed and pierced hers. "So I have to ask…how does it feel?" He paused. "How does it feel to have your family slaughtered? To be drug aboard a Fire Nation battleship, given kindness and hospitality from the man who ordered your entire culture's demise? To be dressed up and become the pretty little doll Iroh's suddenly craving?"

He leaned forward, cupped her face—not gently, not like Iroh would. Twisted his fingers into the hallow pits of her cheeks, forcing her teeth apart. "I can see it there," he said as a cruel smile split his lips. "I can see your hostility, your  _hate_." He tilted her head, pointed at her left pupil with his thumb. "Right there. It's  _right there,_  and Iroh refuses to see it. Why is that, you little barbarian? Why is that?"

His tongue ticked three times— _click, click, click—_ and Katara mustered enough saliva to spit in his face.

" _Let me go,_ " she snarled.

And he did.

Spit fizzled and evaporated. "There's the savage Iroh can't see."

"Get  _away_ from me!"

"Oh, I  _still_ can't understand you. But don't worry—" His smile grew and grew, cracked across his face. Wicked.  _Demented._ "—nobody will need to, soon enough."

The ship lurched and he grabbed a chuck of her hair, heaved her out of her cocoon as she kicked and sputtered, cried and clawed. She struck his armored forearms with enclosed fists, used her nails to dig into his hand. Pulled, scratched, shoved, hit, beat, and screamed. But he was undeterred—so strong!—and continued into the hall.

"Tea!" she screamed.

He paused, hearing his own language escape her throat.

"Bed, water, ice!" she shrieked, still struggling.

He rolled his eyes and lugged her down the hall. "Even a sparrow-keet can repeat a word if it hears it enough."

"Sleep! Table! Window! Food! Door!" The words became obscenities and she screamed each one at the top of her lungs, hoping somebody would overhear and come running to her aid.

Nobody did.

"Bad! Bad!  _Bad!_ " she wailed, tears prickling her eyes.

He dragged her outside, onto the shifting deck. Soldiers scurried the deck's length, busied with their assigned tasks. She shouted—"Soon! Soon! Soon!"—and nobody heard or looked.

The sky cried with her, fat tears  _plink, plink, plinking_ against the steel. The rain hurt; it felt like shrapnel against her bare skin, like being stabbed with several hundred ice picks all at once, like her worst nightmare brought to life. And though the rain was painful, the captain shielded his face and tossed her across the slick deck, into the railing.

Katara held onto the steel rails, panting, trembling. Terrified of the swirling, churning sea below. Terrified of the officer lifting her up…

…and over.

" _Iroh!_ "

She squealed as the ocean swelled and swallowed her up. Down, down, down she went. Screaming, flailing.

Drowning.


	4. Home

" _I remember a story I once heard about drowning: that when you fall into cold water, it's not that you drown right away, but that the cold disorients you and makes you think that down is up and up is down, so you may be swimming, swimming, swimming for your life in the wrong direction, all the way toward the bottom until you sink."_

**Lauren Oliver**

* * *

**XoXoX**

* * *

Debilitating. Immobilizing.  _Cold._

Katara flailed, but the water churned and dragged her deep, deep, deeper. Below the twisting, pulling waves, where the storm's orange-hued light vanished and the ocean's eternal darkness beckoned. The ocean's voice was soft, cryptic, but strangely welcoming and enticing. Like an ethereal body who could cast its voice into the swirling abyss with the sweet tones of her whole tribe.  _Come closer, Katara. Don't be afraid. Join us. All you need to do is breathe._ A pause as the sea tugged at her clothes, cupped her cheeks with bone-chilling tendrils of whirling water.  _Breathe deeeeeeeeeep._

But she didn't. And the ocean retaliated, grew enraged and aggravated. Katara's woolen clothes drew snug to her skin, frigid fabric once so warm—once so cozy—betraying her and filling with cold. With dread. Making her plummet further down, deeper and deeper. Helpless. Afraid.

The further she descended, the harder it became. She couldn't move, couldn't beat her arms against the storm-fed current. Couldn't kick to the surface for a desperate, life-saving breath. The sea pulled in. Tight, tight,  _tighter,_ constricting her body, pulling her to a depth no human should sink.

She descended below the warship's hull, below the churning waves and the pelting rain. Ten, twenty, fifty feet. And there, beneath the mess, beyond the storm's powerful grip, the water stilled.

And for a moment, Katara considered the ocean's call.  _Breathe deep. Deeeeeep._ Her eyes closed and she welcomed the calm, floating nothingness. It didn't pull, didn't rip or tear her in any direction it wanted. It was just…nothing. And she felt like a lethargic fish, unwilling to move, unable to do much else other than exist.

And it felt nice. Like she could drift in the water forever and ever, never resurface. Die in the sea's embrace. Spend whatever time she had left encircled in her culture's element, entrenched in silence, in nothing. And she settled, eyes squished tight, knees pulled to her chin, huddled like a fetus within her mother's womb. Pleased with her unexpected end.

_Breathe deeeeeeep, Katara._

But she couldn't. And within the tranquil stillness, her eyes snapped open, suddenly enraged. She wasn't a lazy fish, ready to depart the physical world and walk into the Spirit World. She was a  _wolf._ A Southern Water Tribe waterbender. Daughter of Chief Hakoda and Kya. Sister of Sokka. Granddaughter of Kanna. All of whom were relying on her to administer the justice they deserved. The justice they'd earned from their untimely deaths. And her arms flowed out, fingers splayed, greeting her element with a frigid squeeze.

The water tried to beat her down—venomously retaliate—but she beat  _it_ down and away, up and out. It faltered—baffled—and then moved to her will, curled around her feet and pushed her up, up,  _up!_

She gasped when she broke through the water's roiling surface. Arms wrestled against the surf, fought against the howling wind and assaulting rain. She urged her limbs to spin—to swim—to fight past the point of exhaustion, to keep paddling so she could stay afloat.

Mouth agape, struggling to breathe in the wind, rain, and waves, Katara wailed. "Help!  _Help!"_

_Boom! Crack! Sizzle!_

The sky lit up. Crackles of lightning filled the darkness, illuminated the grey clouds. Made eerie shadows dance across the grey-green hull of the Fire Nation battlecruiser lurking thankfully nearby.

And then somebody saw her and screamed. " _Man overboard!"_

* * *

**XoXoX**

" _There is nothing more painful than the untimely death of someone young and dear to the heart. The harrowing grief surges from a bottomless well of sorrow, drowning the mourner in a torrent of agonizing pain; an exquisite pain that continues to afflict the mourner with heartache and loneliness long after the deceased is buried and gone."_

**Jocelyn Muray**

**XoXoX**

* * *

Iroh ran as fast as he could, pushing aside whatever unfortunate soul happened to be in his path, tearing through the steel-bordered corridors with the ferocity of his namesake. He threw uniformed men clear across the hall, flailing his arms in uncoordinated, frantic swipes. The men groaned and grunted, but the Dragon of the West ignored their cries and continued batting away as many soldiers as he felt necessary. Eventually, they learned. And pressed themselves tight against the walls, out of their commanding officer's way.

Down another hall lined with men, backs pressed snug against the walls, and Iroh slinked and tore, twisted like the dragon sulking deep within him. And then he stopped when he reached his destination. Inhaled. And pressed his twitching, nervous hand against the cold door of the medical bay.

What greeted him was a sight stolen directly from his nightmares and very-recent past—the image of red-covered, tiny feet poking upward like minuscule mountains. So small, so still. Like Lu Ten's had been not that long ago. Like Lu Ten's had been back when…

Iroh's eyes blurred and he shook his head. Nothing could be worse than losing his only child—his son—but the sight of Katara's little feet prodding upward frightened him in an all-too familiar way. A horrible, terrible way. And he couldn't bear to see her petite form so still, so damaged.

Though he despised the scene, he was a born and bred leader, the next Fire Lord. He could— _had to_ —deal with such sights. And so he neared, placed his hand on the edge of the bed and let his fingertips trace a straight line on the medical bay's generic, red-woolen sheets. He frowned. They were coarse. Uncomfortable.  _Scratchy._ And he was once again reminded of that fateful day, of the red-bannered tent outside Ba Sing Se, where no person could properly articulate the unfortunate news of his son's critical condition.

His eyes blurred again, but he needed to get past his swollen grief. For Katara's sake. For his own.

"General Iroh." The doctor's voice was sad and soft. And he offered his future ruler a clipped bow before checking his patient's pulse. And after a moment, he frowned and then sighed. "Her condition hasn't improved."

Iroh visibly crumbled, and to hide his sorrow, he reached for Katara's blue-tinted, nearly-frozen hand. He squeezed. Hard and long, sending a lick of heat through her tiny digits. He needed her to know that he was there with her— _for_ her—that she wasn't alone. That no matter her condition, no matter her coughs or sputters or shudders, he wouldn't leave her side.

"How long does she have?" he asked.

"A few hours." The doctor considered. "If she's lucky."

Iroh breathed and nodded, rubbed an errant tear out of the crevice of his weathered eye. "I want her to be comfortable."

"Of course—"

"I'll be taking her upstairs."

"But sir." The doctor stepped forward and placed his wrinkled hand on Iroh's shoulder. "She'll need constant care, continuous supervision."

"I'm aware."

"And even if she survives the night, she'll need lukewarm broth on an hourly basis. A fiercely-burning fire to fight her chills."

"I know."

"Somebody to clean up her mess, deal with her fits."

"I've experienced a sick child before."

The doctor frowned and released his future Fire Lord's shoulder. "This isn't a sick child, sir. She almost died—will probably die soon, too."

Iroh clasped Katara's hand a little tighter, let a little bit more heat pour through his fingers. And faintly, he felt her squeeze back. His breath hitched. "I haven't given up hope yet."

* * *

**XoXoX**

" _It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men."_

**Frederick Douglass**

**XoXoX**

* * *

A deep breath and a release. And then heat. Another deep breath. More heat.

Even unconscious, Katara snuggled closer, pressed her face into his cotton-covered side and breathed in his warmth. She moaned into his clothes—a low-pitched, desperate sound—and he shivered; her breath was chilly. It reminded him of the South's ever-present cold, of the snow and wind. Of bone-chilling rain on a brutally warm day.

Of her—Katara.

He patted her head and she grumbled in her sleep.

Another inhale. Exhale. More heat.

He smiled as she settled, smiled as she moaned. And then frowned when she shivered and shook. Trembled in his arms.

More heat. More heat. More, more, more.

It was like a drug. A drug she couldn't get enough of. And Iroh was happy to supply it, happy to keep her sated. Intoxicated. Because each moment she was warm was another moment she was alive. Living and breathing. Cuddling him the way Lu Ten used to when he was young and ill.

_You're so warm, Daddy. Hold me tighter. Tighter!_

In the privacy of his quarters, Iroh's tears flowed freely down the crevices of his nose and past his puffy cheeks, beyond the curve of his lips, and into his charge's mousy, tousled hair. He hugged her tight, one large arm wrapped around her tiny middle, the other puling her limp head closer to his chin so her hair could continue mopping up the tears streaming down his face.

"Ee-roh," she mumbled in her sleep, eyebrows wrinkling.

Iroh lessened his hold and Katara wiggled against him, positioned her arms against his chest so she could push him away.

"Please stop, little one," he whispered, curling his fingers into her hair, cupping the back of her head with a gentle caress. She stilled at his words and touch and he placed his lips against her tear-soaked forehead. Gave her a soft peck.

Katara opened her bloodshot eyes and looked at him like she couldn't really see him. Squinted. And then placed her half-frozen hands on his face, swiped at his tears with the soft pads of her thumbs. She focused her blue-tinted gaze on the remnants of his tears and scowled, unsure of what they were, of what they could possibly mean.

Iroh's studied his ward, examined the way she rolled her head from side to side, inspecting the thin trails of saltwater. Did her people not weep? With joy, sadness, or tragedy?

"Water…?" she said, soft and questioning.

"Tears," he corrected, sad but firm. "For you, Katara."

"Tears…" she repeated. "For…Katara?"

Her face scrunched together, unable to understand his words. And he sighed and unleashed another wave of heat, urged her to nestle closer. She did exactly what he wanted—closed her eyes and pressed her face into his chest, rested her chin on the girth of his ever-expanding stomach and inhaled his heat and scent, embraced his nurturing assistance.

And when she finally settled, Iroh blessed her with another kiss on the forehead. She shivered at that, so he wrapped both arms around her middle and pulled a blanket overtop them both. He inhaled—slowly, lest he wake her—and gifted her with the heat she desired.

With the love he was so willing to give.

* * *

**XoXoX**

" _We never know the love of a parent till we become parents ourselves."_

**Henry Ward Beecher**

**XoXoX**

* * *

Katara woke drenched; covered from head to toe in sweat.

She shrugged off the pile of blankets covering her body. Swiped each article off and away from her legs. Went for the weight on her middle but noticed that it wasn't just blankets keeping her warm. There was a body behind her, arms covering her midsection. Preventing her from moving, preventing her from seeking the chilly relief she desperately desired.

"Ee-roh," she grumbled, elbowing his stomach.

Iroh stirred but then mumbled something soothing ("Rest, little one. Rest.") and went back to sleep. He squeezed her stomach and nuzzled his chin into her hair, breathed on her neck as he drifted off.

The heat from his breath and his proximity made Katara's skin crawl. So she squirmed and elbowed him again. But he either didn't feel it or refused to acknowledge it. He didn't say anything, either. Merely slept and snuggled.

Katara huffed. She was angry. Upset.

But she was defeated and trapped. And she knew better than to continue fighting her fate. So she nestled into his stomach and crossed her arms. Shivered. Then drew the sweat-soaked blankets back over her legs and pressed her head into Iroh's cushy beard and fat-thickened neck.

Iroh was so irritating.

So warm. So cushy. So snuggly.

But so irritating.

* * *

**XoXoX**

" _When you hold your baby in your arms the first time, and you think of all the things you can say and do to influence him, it's a tremendous responsibility. What you do with him can influence not only him, but everyone he meets. And not for a day or a month or a year, but for time and eternity."_

**Rose Kennedy**

**XoXoX**

* * *

"…And the prince and princess lived happily ever after."

Katara blinked and pressed her fingers against the leather-bound book on her lap. An image was spread across the page; a heavily-armored young man and a robbed young woman embracing and sharing a tender kiss.

"Awww," she said, tapping the picture, admiring the painting with a girlish squeal.

Iroh chuckled from behind. His beard tickled the back of her neck, but she had grown used to the coarse hairs and his ever-present proximity. Because, other than to use the bathroom or attend a very necessary meeting, he had barely left her side.

And it had been that way for  _days._

And though it had been days, his presence was aggravatingly sweet. So much so, that Katara hated herself for enjoying his company. For enjoying each story he told, each cup of tea he prepared, and each moment his heat made her relax and scooch closer.

"I'm happy you liked that one, Katara. It's one of my favorites."

"Another?" Katara turned around and saw Iroh's disappointed expression. She bit her lip and remembered the manners they had practiced. Spent  _hours_ on because they were  _important._ "Please?"

"Very well," he said with a smile.

Katara scrambled forward and Iroh got out of bed. He riffled through his expansive library and pulled out another one of his favorite tales. She bounced in his absence, excited for the pictures, excited for the opportunity to see an image that wasn't a visual instruction for gutting a fish.

"Here we go." Iroh settled behind her again, drew the blankets over them both and unleashed a comfortable wave of heat. Katara melted into him and used his stomach as a pillow.

The tale began. And he flicked through the pages when she was done committing the pictures to memory.

They read for hours—Iroh, ever the storyteller as he changed his voice to match the characters, and Katara, captivated and enthralled with his enthusiasm. The sun crept across the window, but neither cared; both were mesmerized. Both were happy.

"… _The beast feasted on its kill, maw bloodied and flesh dripping down its chest. It gorged, unaware of the prince's approach, unaware that he had managed to follow it._

" _The prince spun his swords, respectfully alerting his target, allowing it an honorable, fighting chance."_ Iroh's fingers spiraled over the page and Katara watched, captivated. " _Swish. Swish. Swish. And the beast paused its hearty consumption and turned, its red-coated teeth barred and hackles extended, ready to rip the prince to pieces."_

"No," Katara squeaked, soft and scared. She gripped the book's cover and pulled it close, looked at the picture of the hunter nearing the white-furred wolf, ready to kill it. But the wolf was growling, anticipating the hunter's every movement. Prepared.

" _And then, the clouds dispersed overhead and the beast stopped its snarling and started whining. The prince watched the beast suffer, watched as the unhindered moonlight shone down on its twisting, changing limbs._

" _White fur turned brown, an extended jaw crunched back and up—into a human nose. Arms and legs shed their fur and lengthened, exposing tan, naked skin._

" _And suddenly, standing before the prince wasn't a beast. It was a girl. A naked, human girl."_

"A girl?" Katara asked, turning around to meet Iroh's humored expression.

"Like you, little one. But much older."

"Like me?"

"Oh yes, very much like you." Iroh smiled and winked. And then continued. " _The she-beast stood and smeared the blood off her lips with the back of her hand. She looked at the prince and studied his confused expression, silently questioned why he hadn't advanced. And just as he was about to speak, she bolted, furling snow in her wake."_

"She runned away?"

"The past tense of run is ran," Iroh corrected. "But yes. She ran away."

"Ran away," Katara said. "But…why?"

Iroh shrugged. "Maybe she was afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Scared or frightened. The prince was coming at her with a pair of swords."

"But princes no hurt."

"Don't. And yes, they occasionally hurt others. Kill them, too."

Katara's face scrunched together; her eyebrows furrowed and lips puckered. "Our prince don't."

Iroh paused and closed his eyes. Breathed. Then he whispered, "Didn't."

Katara caught his correction and frowned. Past tense. Because her people's prince—her brother—was dead.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Katara scrambled forward so Iroh could get out of their cocoon. When he was finally standing, he smoothed out the creases in his robe and opened the door. "Ah, what a pleasant surprise. Katara—" She looked up and frowned. Would have stuck out her tongue if Iroh wouldn't have caught it and chastised her for it. "—the doctor is here for your daily check-up."

After a small bow, the doctor walked inside and laid his overlarge, black bag on the floor beside the bed. He began his inspection with meticulous duty, making sure to keep his suggestions simple and reasons a mystery. "Open your mouth." And a flat stick went inside. "Say, ahhhh." And she did. A cold circle against her chest and an earpiece behind the doctor's sideburns. A few moments of curious silence and an impatient huff as the doctor poked and prodded her arms and legs. Banged on her kneecap with a tiny rubber hammer.

"She's getting stronger every day," Iroh said from afar, watching the doctor's every move.

"She's extraordinarily lucky, sir. Any longer out there and her fate might've been significantly more grim."

"She's a fighter. Smart," Iroh said, proud and boasting. "And she's learning more and more every day."

"I'm sure," the doctor said with a small nod. He put his instruments away and snapped his bag closed. "And since she's learning so much, have you asked her?"

"About what?"

"That night. How'd she get out? How'd she get on deck? How'd she end up in the sea?"

"Ah." Iroh frowned. "I have not."

"Perhaps it's time, sir."

They both looked at Katara and she shuffled anxiously in the bedsheets. Pulled them up to her chin because she understood most of their conversation. She had been preparing for this moment, had expected Iroh's questions and concerns. How she got out, how she ended up in the ocean, how she almost died—she didn't want to talk about those things, but she knew they'd eventually be discussed.

And she needed to lie about that night. Needed to be believable, too.

Because she had crafted a plan for that man. A plan where the captain ended up with water in his lungs, choking on the very sea that almost killed her. Pleading. Begging. Scrambling as the ocean burned his throat and sent him spiraling into delirium.

She wanted to see his lips turn blue. See his skin swell until it reached its bursting point. She wanted to see his insides writhe as water penetrated every square inch of his being.

And yes, she knew her plan would take a few years—she wasn't big enough to overpower him or knowledgeable enough to outsmart him. Yet. But she was patient, she could wait. After all, if she could wait long enough to end the person or thing Iroh loved most as recompense for her family, she could wait a few years to get her revenge against the captain.

All of her plans would come to fruition. Eventually.

So Katara bit her bottom lip and feigned helplessness under Iroh's gaze. "Afraid," she whispered as she looked at her covered feet. "I was…afraid."

"You would've been safe here, little one," Iroh said. "The door was locked, the—"

"No," Katara said. "Door open." She cringed. "It  _bang, bang, bang._ "

There was a delicate pause as Iroh's expression darkened. She could tell he was thinking about that night. Did he lock the door? And if he didn't, what could have happened in the excitement?

"I was afraid. I find Ee-roh."

"But, Katara—"

"I no find Ee-roh." She hugged her arms beneath the blankets, and sighed. "Water. I find water."

"She must've fallen," the doctor said. "Even I lost my balance with the pitch of the waves. And I've been sea-bound for over a decade."

Iroh wasn't satisfied. "So you were by yourself? Nobody took you?"

"Took…?" Katara said.

"Stole. Kidnapped." Iroh let out a frustrated breath. She was still confused so he put his book in her lap and then quickly snatched it away. "Took."

"Oh.  _Took._ No, no took. I find water." Katara gave him her best sad face. "Find water—" She stood and made sure they were watching. Collapsed on the ground and dramatically flailed. Gasped.

"…and you fell," the doctor said, convinced. "You're very lucky the crew found you so fast. You could've died out there."

Katara nodded like she completely understood and crawled back into bed. She gestured outward for Iroh to join her, to heat up her blankets and continue reading his story. "Sit," she said when he remained still and merely stared at her. "Please?"

Iroh didn't look convinced with her lie, but he blinked and then nodded. "Okay." He turned to the doctor. "Until tomorrow, my friend."

And the doctor departed.

And when the door was finally closed, Iroh joined his young ward. He heated their blankets and held her close, read his favorite story for the remainder of the night.

But Katara could tell something was wrong.

Because he didn't do the voices.

* * *

**XoXoX**

" _Going home is not necessarily a wonderful experience. It always comes with a sense of loss and makes you so conscious of the inexorable passage of time."_

**W. G. Sebald**

**XoXoX**

* * *

"There it is, Katara. Isn't it beautiful?"

Katara tittered back and forth on her tiptoes, struggling to see Iroh's home overtop the expansive railing. She fell to the balls of her feet and smiled. "The Fire Nation?"

"My home." Iroh squinted. "And my family." Pointed. "Can you see them, standing at the edge of the dock?" A smile. "My nephew is waving."

Katara grabbed the railing and hoisted herself up. She peered in the direction Iroh was pointing and saw a boy waving frantically from afar, arms spread wide and distorted face filled with joy. Nodded.

"My brother, Ozai. My sister-in-law, Ursa. And my niece and nephew, Azula and Zuko. They're here to welcome us home. Isn't that nice?"

More squinting and another nod. "Your dad?"

"He must be at the palace, awaiting our return." Iroh grinned and then turned, looked away from his family and home. Looked suddenly forlorn and filled with regret. "I've been gone for so long—nearly two years. I wonder what's changed in my absence." He sighed. "Did Zuko master his firebending basics? Did Ursa finish her garden project? Did Azula start her training? I've missed so much of their lives. It'll be like talking to complete strangers."

Katara crawled off the railing and scrunched her nose as she looked at him. "But you like talking."

Iroh chuckled. "I do. Very much."

" _I know_."

Iroh snorted and laughed harder. And after wiping the tear from his eye, he disappeared into the depths of the ship. Katara took one last look over the railing and followed, running to catch up. They traversed the halls together, sinking steadily lower and lower as they prepared to disembark. And when they finally reached the main deck, Iroh stopped and inhaled. Slow and steady as he met her gaze.

She fidgeted.

"Are you nervous?"

"Umm…"

He smiled. "You'll fit in nicely, you know. My nephew is always in need of a friend and I think you'll enjoy his company. He's shy and a little awkward, but he's got a heart of solid gold. You'll be fast friends; I guarantee it."

Katara nodded and bit her lip. She reached for Iroh's hand and he wrapped his fingers around her tiny fist as they walked onto the deck of the ship, where his trusted captain, lieutenant, and commander were waiting for them. He bowed to each one and didn't notice how she twitched and then tensed under the captain's harsh gaze.

"Captain Zhao, Lieutenant Jee, Commander Leo, it's been an honor."

They saluted and bowed as one.

"The honor is ours," Captain Zhao said, speaking for the group. "And we'd like to express how delighted we are with Katara's ever-growing health. She's truly a miracle."

Iroh nodded and beamed. Katara glared from behind the safety of Iroh's robes. "Thank you. Your concern is most kind."

_Errrrrr._

The ship settled in the water, stopped alongside the dock covered with cheering spectators and anxious family members. Katara could hear wailing women and screaming children, awaiting their husband's and father's embraces. Joyous for their return.  _"Finally,_ " one woman screeched, prompting laughter from the crowd.

Gangway extended and set in place, Iroh's usual entourage of Imperial firebenders disembarked first. Captain Zhao and Commander Leo went next. And after they were finally grounded, Iroh waved to the chanting crowd ("Long live Agni! Long live Agni!") and set off with Katara pressed tight against his side, her fist clenched in the crease of his robes. Lieutenant Jee wasn't far behind, and he gave his superior a curt nod before disappearing into the throng with his cohorts.

Katara winced as she stepped onto Fire Nation territory. Cringed when she realized just where she was and what had happened to get her there. Wanted to hurl when she remembered her father's last trek, remembered his last homecoming and how similar it was to this—the screaming women and children, the fanfare and joy. The sorrow-filled, throaty gasps when wives learned the fate of their husbands. The jubilant screams when couples reunited.

She pressed her face into Iroh's silken side as they stepped toward the boisterous mob ("Long live Agni! Long live Agni!"). She wanted to drown out their voices. Drown out her memories. But when a man's voice broke through the crowd's thunderous roar, she looked up and then hid behind the safety of Iroh's large form, eyes just barely peeking out from around his girth.

"Brother." A bow, significantly shorter than any of the ones Katara had seen during her two-week stay on the cruiser. "It's been far too long."

"Indeed," Iroh said with a tilt of his head.

There was an awkward pause and some stagnant silence. And just when Katara thought they'd depart the dock, a woman stepped forward and embraced her brother-in-law in a loose but very affectionate hug. "Prince Iroh," she said. "We've missed you."

Katara stiffened.  _Prince?_

"And I, you."

"Uncle Iroh! Uncle Iroh!" a boy pounced forward and wrapped his arms around Iroh's waist, narrowly missing Katara's clenched fist. "I've been practicing my tsungi horn just like you said. You wouldn't believe how good I am. And how much my firebending has improved. When we get back, you'll watch me practice, right?" A millisecond to respond. "Right?"

"Of course, Prince Zuko. I'd be delighted."

Katara's fists clenched and she peered around Iroh's waist to get a better look. She glared at Zuko, glared at his excitement and enthusiasm. Glared at his rosy, full cheeks, crisp clothes, and golden-hued eyes. Ugly and unnatural. Just like his uncle's, albeit a little brighter.

She turned her nose at the sight and then felt a hand on her shoulder, manicured nails digging into her flesh. "So the rumors are true," Ozai said, voice cold. He shook her shoulder and pried her away from Iroh, away from the man who had protected her thus far. "You've brought a  _pet_ home."

"Not a pet, Ozai," Iroh said, voice equally cold. "This is Katara."

Ozai smirked and twisted his fingers deeper into Katara's shoulder. She growled and smacked his wrist. Broke free of his grasp so she could return to her safe spot behind Iroh's expansive form.

"She's a savage," said the little girl.

" _Azula,_ " Ursa chided. "Manners."

"But Mom,  _she is_. Look at her."

Four pairs of golden eyes in her direction and Katara pressed herself tight against her captor. Hid her blue eyes, tan skin, and unruly hair—things that made her stick out. Things that were decidedly  _not_ Fire Nation.

"She's Water Tribe," Iroh conceded, pulling her out from the crevices of his robes, making her stand proud and tall as he displayed her for his family. "Southern Water Tribe."

"And you've brought her home," Ozai said, "for what purpose?"

"She's the last Southerner and I—"

"For  _posterity's_ sake. How noble."

"I think it's  _cool_ ," Zuko whispered.

"Shush," Ozai ordered. He looked down, glared at the mousey-haired outcast. "She should've been slain with the rest." A pause as his eyes met Iroh's. Then, a smirk. "Father will not be happy."

"Father will understand when I explain."

"Father will have her flayed and sent to the North as an example."

"What's  _flayed_?" Katara asked.

Ozai, Ursa, and Azula quieted. But Zuko wasn't deterred. "It's when they peel—"

"She knows our language," Ozai said.

"She's still learning, but yes. She's picking things up at a pace I didn't think possible."

Ozai snorted with disgust and turned his head so he could whisper to his wife.

"—the skin from your body."

"Ee-roh! Will they  _flayed_ me?"

"Flay. And no, they will not, little one. Nobody will touch you."

Katara let out the panicked breath she had been holding and stepped forward with a confidence level that would've impressed her tribe's fiercest warrior. She tugged on Ozai's robes, demanding his attention.

Ozai sneered at the interruption and pulled his clothes away from her fingers. Snarled. "This is not the proper way to conduct yourself, savage."

A blink. And then Katara cleared her throat. "My name's Katara." She stuck her hand out and offered him a proper Water Tribe greeting; he did not gasp her elbow and she did not pull her arm back. "And I'm going to be staying with Ee-roh for a while."

"I've heard."

Katara tilted her head and kept her arm aloft. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Ozai snorted and then folded his arms across his chest. Turned his face slightly skyward so he wouldn't have to look at Iroh's blue-eyed ward as he pointedly ignored her.

"Katara," Ursa said with a soft smile, golden eyes glittering with amusement, "we'd be delighted to host you for as long as you require."

A small hand retracted and Katara bowed, one hand over an enclosed fist, just as Iroh had taught her. "Thank you."

Ursa nodded and ushered her children down the dock and to the waiting palanquin. They disappeared behind the veil one at a time, leaving Ozai, Iroh, and Katara behind.

Ozai turned, prepared to follow his family. But after a few steps, he turned back around and looked down on his brother. Looked down on the tan-skinned girl by his brother's side. "Whatever your reasons for keeping her," he said with a knowing glint in his eye, "she will never replace the one you lost."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the love thus far. Your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, and comments are extraordinarily motivating. And to have so much love this early on...well, I just can't put my gratitude into words. I'm enamored. Truly. You guys are the absolute best.
> 
> Also, if you enjoyed Iroh's story, please check out Beauty is the Beast.
> 
> Double also, I read something interesting the other day: "behind every writer on AO3 is a dragon that hoards kudos, comments, and bookmarks." And I've never related to something so much in my entire life.


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